 5 Well, my boy, to think of you drifting down here! Have a cigar, and put your feet on the railing. I tell you, you may travel the world over, when there isn't an easier posture known than the Yankee one of feet higher than head. John Davont and Richard Thornley sat upon the wide veranda of bluff head, and Thornley, being thus given the freedom of Yankee position, planted his feet upon the high railing, tipped back his broad-arm chair, and inhaled the smoke of his host's good cigar. You've caught the language of the place already, I see, Mr. Davont. Had we met anywhere else, another word would have done. Drifting applies here. No one runs down to Quinton, or happens down. One just naturally drifts. It's a great place. You like it, eh? Mr. Davont let his eyes rove over the wealth of color and wildness and puffed enjoyably. It's immense. Strange, isn't it, how a place can lie slumbering for generations right at our doors, and no one has sense enough to look at it. And after all it is while it is sleeping, or beginning to stir, that it charms. Two years from now, when the rabble get onto the racket, the glory will be gone. Think of picnics on the hills. Imagine a crowd rushing for the dunes, and the bay thick with sails. Now, let's make the best of it while we may. Mr. Davont laughed. I'll give it five or ten years, he said. My grandfather had a vision of its future prosperity. He bought acres here for a mere song. He built this house, hoping the family would find it comfortable for the summers. My father liked it so well that he settled the library and general fixtures for a home, living winters at a hotel in town. But the old place was too lonely for me in the past. I'm just beginning to have visions, like my forebears. I'm sick of travel. Town life ought never to charm a natural animal except during the months of bad weather. My boy, I believe I'll settle down at fifty and take to land speculation. I'll buy up round here, keep the grip of the rabble off, and preserve this spot for the pure in heart and them who have clean hands. It'll be a missionary work, thornly rejoined lightly. Who turned your eyes, hitherward dick? Why, John Mason. He saw Chatterdon's famous picture and came down and discovered this garden spot. Poor old Mason. With his money-pots and his struggling love for beauty and simplicity he is sore distressed. He wanted to build a cabin on the dunes and live here summers, but Madame and the girls almost had hysterics. They have just built a gingerbread affair at Magnolia, and so Mason added a den to the structure. A huge room overlooking the sea. It has space left on the wall for a big picture, and Mason gave me an order. Go down to that heaven-preserved spot, he said. Get the spirit of the place and put it in my den. I don't mind the price. Stay down all summer, but get it. Do you think you can?" asked Devont. Thornly's gaze contracted. I think I have, he replied, slowly flicking the ashes that had accumulated upon his cigar. Good! That means more glory. In this sordid age and with an uncomprehending public you've had rare fortune in getting rid of your work, dick. Your pictures are sellers, I hear. How proud your father would have been. My old friend was one of the few men I have known who set a price upon genius above money. Yes, I wish father and mother could have known. It's often a bit lonely. But there is Catherine. At least I suppose there is still Catherine. Yes, slowly. There is still Catherine, and our relations are the same. She's watching my stunts in art. She's proud of you? She's proud of my success. Thornly smiled. There's a difference, you know. Oh, yes. But Catherine is young. I'd like to see the child again. Is she as pretty as her childhood promised? She is very handsome. Full of life and dimples? Oh, she's giddy enough. Superb health and undiminished scent for pleasure. Catherine is an undoubted success. I must have her down. My sister is coming at the month's end. I'll write to Catherine tonight and plead my friendship for her parents. Where is she? And I'll tell you you're here. She's at South End, with the Prescott. For some moments the older and the younger man smoked in silence. The sun set in due time and Captain David's light appeared. What a living thing a lighthouse is, said Thornly. That and an open fire have the same vital human interest. I believe you are right. When I find myself bad company I always have a fire built if the temperature is below 70. Since I came here I've taken to this side of the veranda late afternoons, and I grow quite chummy with Captain David's light. Mr. Devont got up, stretched himself, and took to pacing the piazza slowly. You know David of the light? asked Thornly. As a boy I knew the characters round about here somewhat. I'm trying to reinstate myself in their good graces. This place produces strange and unexpected types. Yes, I found a pimpornal flower on the hills today, said Thornly irreverently. Even the flora is startling. You found what? A pimpornal. It's a common wildflower in some sandy places, but a strange enough little rascal to be seen just here. It's called the poor man's weather-glass. Where it grows most common it is not especially noticeable, but it almost took my breath this morning. It's in keeping with the surprises of the surroundings. Devont laughed. Well, he said presently, it must be a relation, same family, you know, of a pimpornal of a girl I've discovered here. Thornly again contracted his brows. Solitary flower? Shutting up at approach of storm and all the rest, he asked. Solitary flower all right, Devont rejoined. I'm not up on plantology, but I've studied humans, often done, and I cannot account for this one. I don't know whether, in my position as friend to you, I should bring this odd specimen to your notice, but I'd like to have you, as an artist, pass judgment upon her beauty. I might have the storms effect upon this pimpornal of yours," Thornly put in, make her hide within herself. I fancy storms would not daunt her. I don't know, but that she would rather enjoy them. Thornly yawned secretly. Handsome, is she? Not only that, said Devont, I suppose she is wonderfully handsome. She has grace, too, and a figure, I should say, about perfect. But it is her mental make-up that staggers me. She talks in one way and thinks in another. She clings to her Gs, too, in spite of local tradition. She hasn't a passing acquaintance with Ain't, or the more criminal Ain't. Her English is good. She reads like a starved soul, for the pure pleasure of it, and she thinks like a child of ten. By Jove, she was here in my library the day I arrived. She had a secret method of getting into the house by a cellar window, had done it for years. She almost froze my blood when I saw her. I thought I'd struck a ghost for certain. She was reading Shakespeare, said she hadn't been able to get beyond him for three months. She began to read when she was little at the bottom shelf, and has worked her way up to the fifth, and yet with all that she's a simple child, Dick. Small it in fielding, and heaven knows who else are on the third shelf. Lord! cried thornly, and laughed loudly. Who is this Pimpernal? Janet of the Dunes. Captain Billy's girl. Been brought up like a wild thing. Sails a boat like an old tar. Swims like a fish. Motherless, old Billy, a poor chote, according to the gossip. The women have a sort of pitying contempt for him. The men keep their mouth shut. But you can fancy the training of this girl. I'm always interested in heredity, and I'd like to know the girl's mother. Something ought to account for my Pimpernal. Thornly was rising. I'll try to account for my flower, Mr. Devont, he said. I daresay some untoward wind bore it from its original environment. It may be that the same reasons exist in the case of this flower of yours. Good night. Stay till late dinner, Dick. You know you don't want to go back to a dish of prunes and soggy cake. Better stay. No, thank you just the same. I'm going to bunk out in my shanty to-night. I've got a chafing-dish there. The prunes were undermining my constitution. Good night. Devont watched him until the shrubbery hit him. I'll get Catherine down as soon as I can, he mused. And for his father's sake, as well as his own, I'll try to keep him and the Pimpernal apart until then. His engagement to Catherine is a safe anchor. But while Davy's light shone friendly-wise upon Bluffhead, it also hid its duty by a lonely little mariner putting off from Davy's dock. It had been a hard day for Janet. Susan Jane, with almost occult power, had seemed to divine the girl's longing to get away. There are no border, the helpless woman had snarled. I reckon you've got something human about you. If you can't stop and do for me, I'll call David. I've had a bad night, and I ain't going to be left to myself. There's stern do-ins going on, but no one comes here to gossip. I'll stay," Janet had sighed, remembering David's worn, patient face when he staggered toward the bedroom an hour before. But I cannot gossip, Susan Jane. I don't know how. And all the other folks are busy cooking, feeding, washing for, and waiting on the borders. City folks come high, Susan Jane. Well, if you can't gossip, Janet, there is them as can. Thank God when he took the use of my legs and arms he strengthened my eyes and ears. I can see and hear considerable, though there is them who would deny me that comfort if they could. What ails you and Mark Tapkins? Nothing, Susan Jane. Yes, there be two. He's more womble-cropped than ever. They say his pa's make an amint of money selling them crawlers of hisn. Who would have thought of Mark's being smart enough to set his pa on that tack? The way these city folks eat anything that has given is scandalous. They must have crops like yellow ducks. Have you heard about Mrs. Joje's mod-grace? No, Susan Jane. Janet stirred the cake she was making by Susan's recipe, energetically. Here, deep as a bulkhead, Janet, I bet you're envious. Envious, Susan Jane? Envious of mod-grace? Oh, you have had your eyes open, eh? You just asked me about her, Susan Jane. Oh, did I? Well, it's simply amazing how Mrs. Joje is developing a business talent. Actually, keeping her girl dressed up to entertain the borders. Evenings. She's got someone to help wait in the dining room and she cooks. Joje sails the borders when they pay him enough and that girl just sparks around and acts real entertaining, evenings. I shouldn't wonder with such a smart ma if she caught a ball. I do wish, Janet, since you ain't got no one but Billy and everyone knows he's got about as much gumption as a snipe. I do wish you could land one of these borders. They must be real easy from what I hear. I don't want them. Of course you don't, and you don't want to work for your living and Mark ain't good enough for you. You'd better look out, Janet. I tell you for your good. It ain't safe for you to trust your leanins too far. So the day had passed. The afternoon had brought Mark Tapkins with his gloomy face, too, so Janet had been obliged to give the hills a wide berth and only darkness brought relief. Susan Jane was bewailing her woes in David's patient ears. It was Mark's night in the light. So, unseen and unsuspected, Janet loosed the comrade, unfurled the white wing before the obliging land breeze, and made for the station. It was a glorious summer night, full moon, full tide, and a steady west wind, heavy with the order of the hills. As the little boat darted ahead, Janet's spirits rose as poor David's did when once he parted company with the burden of Susan Jane's peevish egotism. She looked back at the light and thought, with a little sigh of weariness, that she was free from the watchfulness of the three within its walls. The light has an eye upon me. Kind, good light. Captain Daddy and I do not need you to-night, but come storm, then God bless you. It was not the girl's intention to run up to the station, Doc. She knew that Captain Billy had the midnight patrol going east, so she planned to make for the little cove, midway between the station and the half-way house, and take Billy by surprise and assault. She chuckled delightedly as she constructed her emotive attack. She was hungry to feel the comfort of Billy's understanding love and trust. The more she had to conceal from Billy, the more she yearned to be near him. The comrade, responding to the steady hand upon the tiller, shot into the cove. The girl secured the boat and ran lightly over the dunes to the seaward side, then she lay down among the sand grasses and waited. She seemed alone in God's world. The moonlighted ocean spread full and throbbing before her. The sky, star-filled and blue-black, arched in unbroken splendor. The waist and solitude held no awe for this girl of the station. They had been her heritage, and were natural and home-like to her. Under summer skies and through winter storms, she knew the coast's every phase of beauty or danger. It was hers, and she belonged to it. A common love held them together. She crouched close to the sandy hillock. The night was growing old, the tide had turned, and still she sat absorbed in thought and tender memory. How beautiful the world and life were! She took from her bosom the tiny whistle, which had been for five long, delicious weeks her power of summoning unlimited joy to herself. What a new element had entered into her existence! How powerful and self-sufficient she felt as she recalled her part in those wonderful pictures that were growing day by day in the shanty on the hills! Her blood rose hotly in her young body as she lived again under the calm sky those weeks of perfect bliss. Suddenly the girl sat upright, put the whistle in its hiding place, and strained her eyes toward the station. Yes, there came Billy! He was striding along, head-bowed, except when conscientiously he gazed seaward, scanning with his farsighted eyes the bar where danger lay, come storm or fog. But could there be danger on such a night as this? Billy, faithful soul, had not a nature attuned to the glory of the night, but he had a soul sensitive to a brother's need. If he gave heed at all to the summer beauty, it was merely in thankfulness that all was well. Help! Help! Billy stopped suddenly and raised his head. Help! Help! Here's a poor little brig on the bar! A smile of joy overspread the man's face, a smile that drove all care and weariness before it. He little specimen, he called. What you mean by burrowing in the sand and scaring one of the government officials clear out a common sense. Come here, you varment. My captain! the strong young arms were about the rugged neck. You were just going to send up a constant light now, weren't you, Daddy? No, I were not. I don't waste nary a constant on a worthless little hulk like you. Come on, girl, I've been taking it easy. I ain't as young as I once was. We must make the halfway in season. Ain't the first time we've took the patrol together, is it, Janet? He held the girl's hand in his, and she accommodated her step as nearly as possible to his long-swinging gate. Kind of homesick, he asked presently. Kind of you-sick. I wanted to be near you. I wanted you, Janet whispered. Darn little cozzler, chuckled Billy. I know what you're up to. Ain't got nothing to do yet over in the mainland. Just a lazy little torment. And you want a cousin and your captain, Billy. Why can't you join the army that's playing fleets in the city, folks? They'd be the easiest biters, according to what I hear, that has ever run into these shoals. Regular dogfish, one and all. Oh, I pick up a penny now and then. Janet pursed her pretty mouth and said her head sideways. I made enough to pay Susan Jane for last week in this. Susan's an old leech, Captain Billy. It's simply awful to see her greed in money matters. Sitting in her chair, she can manage to want more, strive to get more, and make more fuss about it than any other woman in the mainland. You have to live with Susan Jane to appreciate her. Oh, poor Davy. We never really knew what a hero he is, Daddy. He's splendid. It had been necessary, unless Susan Jane was to receive double pay for her border, that Janet should inform Billy as to her money-getting. But once the fact was stated, the girl hurried to other thoughts in order to divert Billy. How did you get your money, Janet? A serious look came into the man's face. It's uncommon clever of you to help yourself on if the money only comes in a God-fearing way. Captain Daddy! Janet drew herself up magnificently. Do you take me for mod grace? No, I don't. I'm taking you for my gal, and it's my duty to see that you don't forget your training over on the border-struck mainland. But what's wrong along a Mrs. Joe G's gal? Nothing, except she keeps dressed up to entertain the borders and takes tips. That's what she calls them. Tips, Billy wrinkled his brows. Yes, money for doing nothing. Captain Daddy, I work for my money. Do and what? Billy's insistence was growing vexatious. Daddy, don't you ever tell? Janet danced in front of him and walked backward as she pointed a finger merrily. The moonlight streaming upon the girl showed her beauty in a witch-like brightness. It stirred Billy in an uneasy, anxious fashion. There ain't no call to tell anyone, he said. You and me is enough to know. Us and them what pays you. Captain Daddy, I'm a model. A model what? Janet's laugh rose above the lapping water's sound. Why, Daddy, don't you think I'm a model everything? No, Billy shook his head. I ain't blind, gal. You ain't what most folks would call a model, I'm thinking. Well, the artists think I am. The artists? Them women in bonnets and smudgy pinafores? Gosh! For a moment Janet's truth-loving soul shrank from deceiving Billy, but her promise to thornly held her. She stopped her merry dance and came again beside him, clasping the hard hand tenderly within her own. What do they think you're a model of? asked the man, and his face had lightened visibly. Oh, just what their silly fancy tells them. Only, don't you see, Daddy, dear, they don't want anyone to know until the pictures are done. It would spoil the—the—well, I cannot explain. I want to spring the pictures upon folks by and by. According to what Andrew Farley tells— grinned Billy, all amiability now— no one will be likely to know you from a scrub oak stump when the pictures is done. Andrew says when he thinks of all it costs to paint a boat and then sees the waste of good, honest paint up on the hills, it turns his stomach sick. Well, long as it is innocent pottering like that, Janet, I don't know but as you're considerable sharp to trade your looks for their money. It rather goes again the grain with me to have you get the best of them. But, Lord, as the good book says, a fool in his money is soon parted, and so long as they're suffering to part with theirs, I don't know but what you have a right to barter what cargo your little craft carries, as well as others would have less agreeable stores on board. Janet laughed merrily. Mark Tapkins was on yesterday, Billy continued. He says Bluff-Heads open and Mr. Devont and a party is there. Must be quite gay and altered on the mainland. Janet's face clouded. Captain Daddy, she faltered. I'm going to tell you something else. You're a considerable talky, it seems to me. Billy eyed the girl. Captain Billy, have you ever wondered why I talk better than most of the others at the station? I don't know as I would allow that you do, Billy replied. You talk differenter somewhat, but I don't know as it's better. Well, it is. And it isn't all the teachers doings either, Daddy. For Maude Grace and the rest never changed much. But for years, Daddy, I've been crawling in the cellar window of Bluff-Head when no one on earth knew, and I've read five shelves of books. I've thought like those books and talked like them, until I seem to be like them. And, Daddy, the day Mr. Devont came home, he found me in his library-room, reading his books. God! ejaculated Billy and stood stuck still. Did he fling you out, neck and crop? He gasped at last. Daddy, he's a nice old gentleman. Old? He ain't daughterin' yet, and he used to have a bit of pepper in his nadir. What did he do? Do? Why, he gave me the key to his front door. He reads with me and tells me what to read. We're great friends. Eternal specimen! Billy was shaking. I see you've caught the mainland fever, eh, gal? You don't want to bite on the dunes long, old Billy now, eh? You bless it all, Captain. Janet struggled to hold her prize. I'm perfectly happy, and I had to come over here to night and tell you. Janet, Billy's eyes were dim. I keep wishing more and more that you had a ma. I ain't never thought openly on it for years, not since you was first born. But as you grow into womanhood, you seem as helpless as you did then. I wish you had a ma. The little halfway house was in front of them. Andrew Farley, who served on the crew at the station beyond, was in the doorway. What you got in tow, Billy? He called jovially. Just a tarnal bit of driftwood, Andy. Billy rallied his low spirits. Hello, Janet! Andrew recognized her. You can leave the mainland. I thought everyone who could stuck there to see the show. By gracious, Billy, you just ought to see how things has altered. The two men exchanged the brass checks. Then, before returning to their stations, they stood chatting easily. Been up to the hills lately, Janet? The girl flushed. Not very, she replied. Come on, Captain Daddy. I'm going to stay on and sleep in the cottage tonight. Them artists, Andrew continued, turning slowly in his own direction. Them artists smudging up the landscape just scandalous. One of them wanted to paint me the other day, and I held off and led her. Lord, you should just have seen what she'd done to my likeness. She nearly burst when she showed me. I ain't handsome, none ever accused me of that crime, but I ain't lopsided and lantern-jod to the extent she went. She said I had a loose artistic pose. Them was her words, but I ain't so loose that I hang crooked. Janet slept in the cottage on the dunes that night, and when the men rose to go through the sunrise-drill, she ran down to the beach, across the sand-hills, and set her sail toward the mainland. She had had her breakfast in the station with the men, and recalling her difficulty in escaping Susan Jane the day before, she headed the comrade away from the light and glided toward the hills. Mark Tapkins, turning down the wick as the sun came up, saw the white sail set away from home, and something heavier as sleep struck chilly upon his heart. He knew from past spying where Janet was going. End of Chapter 5 6 Janet, used as she was to the keen sweet air of the hills, stood after securing her boat and drew in deep breaths of the pleasant morning. She had taken off her shoes and stockings, for the dew lay heavy upon the ground, and these, wrapped in a fish-net, were flung across her shoulder. There was a good half-mile to tread before the little hut could be reached bodily, but the whistle's call, going on before, would open the gates of paradise if thornly were there. The girl did not put her doubt to the test just yet. There was bliss in dallying with the joy, the bliss of youth, innocence, and unalloyed faith. Thornly might have stayed, as he generally did, at his own boarding-house, or at Bluffhead. Janet had learned of his intimacy there, although she had never imagined Mr. Devont's ingenuity in trying to keep them, at first, apart. If thornly were away from the shanty, Janet knew the place for the key, she could enter at will, and the secrets of the treasure-house were not hidden from her. Lock the door after you, whether you are in or out, was thornly's command. No one must know until the very last. And the girl would have cheerfully defended the place with her life. Over sandy hillocks she went gleefully. The artist in her was throbbing wildly. She had a new inspiration for Thornly's brush. She led his fancy in riotous joy. Where his genius grew slack, hers urged him to renewed effort. The morning came up rudely from the sea. It came with a south wind playfulness, which tossed the girl's glistening hair with free touch and kissed the glowing face into richer beauty. Presently the little secluded hut came into view. The very next fellow held it. Janet stood upon the last hill, drew out her whistle, and with smiling lips that with difficulty formed themselves to the task sent forth her call. The musical note penetrated the stillness. A bird rose affrightedly from a nearby bush, but it and the waiting girl seemed to have the hills to themselves. So much the better, murmured Janet, sparkling with excitement. She all the more surprising. She ran rapidly forward, secured the key, and opened the door. Then she obediently locked it again, and stood within the room, gazing tenderly at every beloved object. It was just as Thornly had left it. He had waited all day for the girl. He had wanted her to pose in the open, but she had failed him, and he had evidently devoted himself to the picture he was painting, as he had told her, for his own private use. My Pimpernal, he called it, and rough as the work was at that stage it was full of beauty and promise. It was Janet little more than sketched, to be sure, but a startling likeness, and the wreath of Pimpernal flowers on the glorious untouched hair had evidently been the artist's last work. The throne-like space, with the cushions and the low divan upon which the girl posed, was in full view, with Thornly's jacket and pipe lying carelessly upon it. The curtain, which always hung over the picture for Mr. Mason, was drawn aside. Apparently the man had had less reason to hide that from any chance visitor. Janet walked over to the table and raised the cover of the chafing-dish. He ate at the boarding-house, she whispered. Else I'd have to wash this. He scandalously untidy. She picked up a glass and sniffed. Wine, she announced. Wine for a party and cracker-crumbs. Company! I wonder who. One, two, three, four wine-glasses! Bluff-headers! Then the smile trembled before the memory of Mr. Davant's proud, haughty sister and the young lady, unlike any Madune-bred girl had ever seen before. Not even the most gorgeous border in the least resembled her. She was so icely-cold, so calmly beautiful, so exquisitely dressed in white, white always, with a dash of gold to match her smooth shining hair. No power could draw Janet to bluff head after the one visit during which the two ladies had frankly and condescendingly taken stock of her, evidently in consequence of remarks made by the master of the house. For the first time in her life Janet had felt the resentment of being looked down upon. Had she a particle of malice or suspicion in her nature, the resentment might have rankled and grown into hate, for the girl had all the pride and independence of the place. As it was, she had withdrawn into herself, like the flower to which she had been likened, and had vanished from sight. Don't wash the glasses! The laugh rang merrily like the laugh of a child. Let her wash her own glass, and soil her pretty frock. But this declaration of independence did not prohibit a general tidying in other respects. The north window shade was rolled up, and the sash raised, the easel drawn out into place before the low stool, and the jacket and pipe arranged conveniently at hand for the master when he should appear. And now, rippled the girl, I'll give him a surprise and a shock. First she went outside, relocked the door, and hid the key. Then nimbly entered the hut by the north window. Once inside again she closed the window, and, trembling with excitement and hurry, ran to the posing platform, and flung herself among the cushions. Then she spread her hair loosely over the sea-green pillows that rose around her. The net was caught up and draped about the slim graceful body. Eyes and small brown feet showed between the meshes. The conceit was deliciously bewildering. When all was arranged she cautiously let fall the shielding curtain and waited. He'll come early, she whispered. Oh, very early! And I wonder what he will call this picture. The night's patrol and the mastering of Billy had tired the girl. The couch was sleep enticing, the pillow's dream bringing, and the day was yet young. So Janet slept, a vision to touch any heart, one to stir an artist to wholly rapture. How long she slept Janet never knew, but the grating of the key in the lock awakened her. Her heart beat wildly, and the blood ran riotously in her veins. The door opened, someone spoke, and then, as if before a north blast, all the glow and glory of Janet's joy froze within her. Wasn't I clever to watch where he hid the key, Mr. Devont? And how utterly good of you to enter the conspiracy and help me find him out. I know he has an immortal picture somewhere here. He wants to spring it upon you and me, along with the herd, by and by. But we wish to be partakers in the pleasure of preparation. Do we not, Mr. Devont? The musical voice had a ring in it, not altogether lovely. Stand aside, Mr. Devont. See, he must have brought his work out after we left yesterday. It was orderly enough then, but look at it now. Let us examine this upon the easel. But first, open the door. I smell stale wine. The untidy fellow has not washed the glasses. Mr. Devont opened the door and said with a half laugh, I'm not quite sure how Dick will like this, Catherine, but while the cat's away. Ah! the word came sharply. Mr. Devont, look here. The two were standing before the easel. Good Lord! cried the man. The Pimpernal! Catherine, this Dick of ours has prepared a surprise for us, sure enough. He evidently had reasons for holding us at bay, Mr. Devont. A thinly veiled sneer was in the low, even voice. He has been using that wild, odd young creature of yours as a model. And he has never told you? I greatly fear our sly Dick has been, well, deceitful. Oh! my dear girl! Devont reassured her. You do not understand. Dick has probably had to procure such a model upon terms of secrecy, not on his own account, but hers. You do not know these people. They are not above taking money, but they make their own terms. Terms? Again, the scornful tone. Yes, my dear, why, what do you think would happen if I called my cook Eliza instead of Mrs. Smith? Starvation, my dear, actual starvation! And I carry my own laundry to Mrs. Abner's snows, carry it and fetch it. This girl now might be willing to pose, and you must admit that she is a raving beauty. But she would hold Dick to a cast iron vow never to let anyone know. What's more, I can take my oath, knowing these people as I do, that the girl never sets her foot in Dick's shop without a bodyguard of at least one captain, perhaps three or four. Let us see if he has any more secrets. There was relaxation in the clear voice. Let us hurry. Dick may be here at any moment, and I do so want to get ahead of him, just to punish him for his underhand methods. Jan had heard the two turn. She knew they were coming directly to the platform. Once, the slow fine voice had regained its smoothness, once in New York I dropped in at Dick's studio when he did not expect me. I wanted him to take me out to luncheon, and I had the oddest experience. Oh, Mr. Devont, look at that bit, pinned to the wall. That is really exquisite. Well, as I was saying, I stole in upon Dick. I called from the outer room that it was I, I wished afterward that I had not, and then I ran into the studio. As quick as a flash, Dick dropped a curtain, just like this, between me and his easel. I was determined to see what he had been painting, but he positively forbade it. He said it was a painter's prerogative to warn even. I loved from that holy of holies. I often wonder what was behind the curtain. I realized from that moment that if you want to see a great artist's best work, you must override his modesty and secretiveness, and tear the screen from his altar. With a light laugh the girl now drew aside the sheltering curtain with playful, dramatic force, and lay bare the secret that had hid. Janet did not move. Her great startled eyes, dark, intense, and passion-filled, stared helplessly at the two who, transfixed, returned the stare in frozen silence. So rigid and deathlike the model lay in the meshes of the net, so beautiful and graceful in her motionless pose, that for an instant the intruders could not trust their senses. Then the woman found voice and action. I fear, she said slowly, coldly, and distantly, I fear we really have intruded where we have no right, Mr. Devont. Then she laughed a rich, rippling laugh. And the captains! Where are the captains, my dear Mr. Devont? They seem to have omitted the captains to-day. Pray, let us go at once! I would not interfere with Dick's future fame for all the world. I can quite understand why artists hide their best work at times. Without a word Mr. Devont dropped the curtain. Janet heard them go out, heard them lock the door, and realized that they hid the key. She tried to get up, but the intention was only mental and died without an effort. A physical sickness and bodily weakness held her. To lie still was the only course possible, but the thoughts rushed madly through the awakened mind. In that hour womanly instinct was born, the instinct that armed itself against suspicion and another's contempt. Shame for what was not real but suggested by a coarser mind hurt and blinded her. The child in Janet had been killed by that white, cold woman, and what arose was more terrible than the slayer could have imagined, for this new creature scorned the innocence and weakness of that lately crushed childhood. It held in contempt the poor, vain, cheap thing that it offered, actually offered itself to a being that came from a world that knew and had power to despise. Wave after wave of torment engulfed the poor girl as she lay without a struggle in her net. The apple of understanding had been forced between her lips by the refined cruelty of another woman. Instinctively Janet found a sort of dumb comfort in the memory of the look she recalled in Mr. Davant's eyes, but while life lasted her soul would shrivel at the memory of the glance which that proud, beautiful girl had cast upon her. The lovely face upon the sea-green pillows paled and flushed as the flood of growing knowledge gathered force. The eyes grew dark and terror-wracked and misery claimed the newborn woman. Then again the key graded in the lock. Strengthened by the perception that was now hers, the girl sprang to a sitting posture and drew her feet beneath the shelter of the coarse-red skirt. The net ensnared her further and so she sat, caught fast in the meshes and in the terror of her condition. Thornly entered the room, closed and locked the door. Then he opened the windows wide. His eye and ear would warn him of intruders and the breath of the summer day he must have. Janet heard him stop before the easel. Then his laugh, contented and youth-filled, rang clearly in the little room. Beauty! he muttered. Great heaven, what almost weird beauty! My Pimpernal, you'll make me famous! Then he whistled gaily, hung up his coat and hat. Did not the listening girl know every movement? Drew on the old paint-bismarched jacket and filled his pipe. Dirty wine-glasses he muttered. Bah! how the stale wine befoules this air! Outside you go to await your purification! The glasses were set jinglingly upon the window-ledge. Then Thornly came to the curtain and flung it heedlessly back. Good Lord! he ejaculated and staggered away. The panic-stricken face that met his paralyzed him for the moment. Then he laughed. Pimpernal! he drew nearer. Dear child, you're as full of surprises as this glorious day in the hills. You've brought me a new sensation, a heaven-sent inspiration. What a partner you are! God bless you! Don't you touch me! Janet warned off the extended hands. Her arms were free and they must serve her now. Janet, what ails you, child? I do not know. I cannot think. Only I know you must not touch me. And I'm not a child any more. Then tears came, a wild remorseful flood. The girl swayed upon the couch, torn by the emotions that last her cruelly. Thornly stood apart. Something undefinable held him to his place. He recalled the first day he had met this strange girl upon the hills and her tears then. But these were different. In a subtle, unspeakable way, he realized that something startling had brought about this changed condition from yesterday's Eden-like life. I wish you could tell me what is the matter, he said pittingly and quietly. He did not move toward her, but his tone, with its sympathetic reserve, did the one thing he longed to do. It drew the girl's trust and confidence. The storm of sobs lessened. The hidden face was raised and the burden of fear and distress lifted slowly. They have been here. The words came upon the crest of the last sob. They—who? Thornly's eyes contracted. Mr. Devont and the one he calls Catherine. Great heavens! And you let them in? They found the key and came in. Thornly muttered something inaudibly. They wanted to see your pictures. They saw everything and me. Again the misery spread over the vivid face. Thornly was unable to take his eyes from that pitiful gaze, but for a moment his own position in this play held part. What did they say? he asked at length. Mr. Devont said nothing. I cannot remember what she said, but whatever it was, it made me know that she thinks me—oh, where can I say? Something too awful to bear. And you—you knew what women like her might think? That is why you made me promise not to tell. That is why you kept the door locked. You knew how the people like her would scorn me, and yet you would not save me. Oh, I know it was because of your pictures. You would let folks like her think what they wanted to, so long as you got what you wanted. The brief confidence in him was gone. There was a power in this fury that shook Thornly as he listened. The blazing face of outraged womanhood confronted him, and the accusation brought truth and torment with it. Get what I wanted, he groped blindly in his soul for an honest answer as to what he had wanted. Yes, what you wanted? You wanted my face because it is beautiful, because I was like this place, the hills and dunes. You thought me like them, just a thing to put upon your canvas to make you rich and famous. But I am a girl, like that girl up at Bluff Head. I am as good as she. My God! Thornly looked at the bowed head that sank again beneath the waves of passion. His eyes grew dim, and his face paled. His soul had answered, and had passed judgment and gave him grace to breathe freely. Janet, he said gently, my poor girl, I am going to wait by the door until you get out of the net and into your shoes. Then come to me. I have much, much to say to you. He did not offer, by thought or emotion, to assist her. He turned and sat guard by the open door, puffing vigorously at his pipe. Janet disentangled herself and put on her stockings and shoes. Then, shod, and with a strange dignity, she crossed the room and stood beside the man, leaning against the jam of the door for support. Thornly looked up and smiled. Then he shook the ashes from his pipe, placed it in his pocket, and offered Janet his stool. I'll sit on the sand, she said, and sank down outside the door. My poor Janet, Thornly began, I do not know what to say. I want to make you understand, and I am afraid I may make further mistakes. I see I have wronged you. In a sense, I've been a bungling fool. But as true as God hears me, I didn't want you upon my canvas for any low or mean reason. I swear that as truly as I ever spoke. It seemed my right to make live what I saw in you. Maybe it was not my right. I begin to fear it was not. But it seemed so at first. I don't know how to say it, but somewhere I have read a thought like this. When an artist enters his studio, he hangs up his passions with his coat and hat. You won't understand that. No woman can, perhaps, and not many men. But it's true, as surely as heaven hears me, and it accounts for a deal of good as well as bad. That is the way I felt. I was greedy to catch you as I saw you. I wanted no one to share the triumph. I never thought of women like Catherine or men like Mr. Devont. I did think of the Quinton folks, and that is the only reason I locked the door. Please try and believe that, my dear girl. If I had one unselfish thought, it was for you and for your people, not for the others like those at Bluff Head. I could have told them all about it when my pictures were hung at the Academy, and that would have ended it. The girl upon the sands sat with hands clasped around her knees. Her dark, clear eyes never wavered from the speaker's face, and thornly saw trust and a growing calm rising in them again. If I had gone far enough in thought, he continued, I might have hoped that such beauty and power as you have would have made you great and strong enough in nature to want to help make these pictures, in spite of everything. I believe in a slow, dull way. I did think that about you once in a while. I know I never meant to harm the woman in you, Janet. Believe me, I swear that. His eyes met hers and never faltered. The girl drew a long breath. Then she shivered slightly and sighed again. I think I see a little what you mean, she quivered. You thought I was better than I am. Higher, nobler than some folks, because I am so so beautiful? Not a shadow of common vanity rang through the words. You thought I would be glad to help in your pictures and never care what others might think, others who cannot understand? You are a great artist, and you thought me an artist, but in a different way. Oh, it comes to me just as Davy's light comes of an early morning when the fog lifts. What a mean, wretched thing I have been to let stings hurt when that splendid picture waits for me. A radiant spread over the wistful face. Thornley was dazzled and could only stare helplessly. See, she had arisen and stood before him in all her strong, young beauty. You need me? Without me you cannot make your splendid picture? Thornley shook his head. It is not the money you want, nor just the fame, but you want to give the world a great joy. Yes, yes, as God is my witness, Janet, that is my desire. Then I will help. Oh, forgive me. Come, please, come. Only—here she smiled pitifully—please leave the door open. It shall never matter again. Nothing can change things now. Thornley staggered to his feet and half extended his hand to draw the girl in. Then something stayed him. I cannot paint today, Janet, he whispered. Something has changed. Perhaps the old longing will return, but I must not trust myself until I know. Go, little Pimpernal, you are the greater artist of us two. I am very sorry the day is spoiled, she returned brokenly. If I had only known more it would have been different. It seems as if I cannot ever forgive myself. She turned and went sadly over the hills with never a backward look, and Thornley gazed after her with yearning eyes. She was taking with her—what, inspiration? Yes, but something deeper and more vital was passing with that vanishing form. What was it? What had occurred to change the summer sunlight to drearest grey? End of chapter 6 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 7 of Janet of the Dunes This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Janet of the Dunes by Harriet T. Comstock Chapter 7 Late August hung heavily over Quinton. The city folks who counted their years playtime by two weeks vacation had come and gone in relays. The artists, never tiring of the changing charms of this new-found beauty spot, gave no heed to the passing season. Only cold and acute bodily suffering could attract their attention. Good, poor and indifferent reveled in the inspiration-haunted hills and magnificent sweep of shore. The natives counted their gains with baited breath and dreamed visions of future summers that made them dizzy. Poor Susan Jane was the only woman, apparently, upon the mainland who had swung at anchor through all the changed conditions. Susan, who once had been the ruling spirit of the village and station, Susan, who's sharp tongue and all-seeing eye had governed her kind. Susan had been obliged to gather such bits of driftwood as had floated to her chair during the history-making season and draw such pleasure from it as she could. The strain had worn upon the paralyzed body. The active mind had stretched and stretched for material until the helpless frame weakened. The sharp tongue was too edged now, and gossip that reached Susan Jane assumed the blackest color. Her searching eyes saw through everything and gripped all secrets. David's songs, as he mounted the winding stairs, took on a soberer strain. Sometimes he omitted, even at the top, his hilarious outburst to the lobster-pots, and his sigh and laugh combination was an hourly occurrence. Janet noticed it all. She was alive to the atmospheric chill of the village, though in no wise understanding it. She was troubled and fretted by many things, but she went her way. The money she had earned by posing, she dealt out in miserly fashion to Susan Jane, while at the same time she assumed many household cares to ease David, whom she loved. There was no more money coming to her now, for after the scene in the hut upon the hills, Thornley had gone away for a week, and upon his return he had told Janet he would send her a message when again he needed her. The man's tone had been most kindly, but it seemed a rebuff from which the girl had not been able to recover. Once or twice she had stolen to the hut, when she was sure the master was away, always the key was in its hiding place. Softly she had gone in and stood in the sacred room. The same picture stood ever upon the easel, the same beautiful unfinished picture. Upon one visit the girl had taken a rare pimpinal blossom she had found in a lonely hollow and laid it on the empty stool before the canvas. It was still there when she went again. Faded and neglected it lay before the shrine, and the message never came that was to call her to the hills. The people of the village, too, were different. They were busy and took small notice of the girl. Business, Janet thought, was the only reason. Mrs. Joe G. in particular was changed, but it had been a hard summer for Mrs. Joe G., and when after many attempts to secure Janet as waitress she had failed, she turned upon the girl sharply. You might be doing worse things, she snapped. You're growing more and more like your ma. And it ain't to your credit. As the first in-road the oncoming wave of sentiment had made in the bulkhead of local reticence. Janet started. What do you mean? she asked. What I say, and what's more, Janet, if you can't turn in and be useful to them as was good enough for you before, you can stop away from us altogether. I don't want Maude Grace to get any full notions in her head. Once Janet would have turned upon such an attack, but somehow the spring of resistance was checked. After all, what did it matter? But she took her mother's picture from the carpet bag that night and hid it in her blouse, with the long silent whistle. More and more she remained at the lighthouse. Seldom even did she sail over to the dunes, and never unless she felt strong enough to leave a pleasant impression upon Billy. Over all this Mark Tapkins watched and brooded, and he slouched more dejectedly between the light and his father's little home. I tell you, he often confided to his inner self, city life is blatant. When I was there it took the breath out of me, and now it's come to Quinton. It's not a good many different from what they once was. With this oft-repeated sentiment Mark reached his father's door one day, and through it caught the smell of frying crawlers. Old Pa Tapkins was realizing his harvest from the borders by acting upon Janet's suggestion to Mark. From early sunrise until the going down of the sun, Pa, when not necessarily preparing food for three regular meals, was mixing, shaping, frying, and selling his now famous cakes. People, in passing, inhaled the fragrance of Pa's cooking, and stopped to regale themselves, and take samples to friends who were yet to be initiated. Pa and his crawlers were becoming by-words, and they often helped out, where meals at the boarding-place failed and conversation lacked humor. As Mark stepped into the kitchen, not only his father, but Captain Billy hailed him. Hello, Captain Billy! cried Mark. Come off for a change, have you? Yes, yes! Billy replied, through a mouthful of crawler, hot enough to make an ordinary man groan with pain. Yes, yes! I've come off to see the do-ins. Well, there is considerable goings-on, Mark nodded, and calmly helped himself to a cake that was still sizzling. There don't seem to be no signs of letting up on us. Now, Marky, purred Pa from the stove. That ain't put in the case just as it is. Looked at from some points we are the clutches. Pa was a mild little man with a round innocent face and flaxen hair rising in a curly halo about it. His china-blue eyes had all the trust and surprise of a newly awakened baby. Life had always been to Pa Tapkins a mild series of shocks, and he parried each statement and circumstance in order that he might happily recognize it if he ran across it again, or, more properly speaking, if it struck him a smarting blow again. Pa never ran at all. As nearly as any mortal can be stationary, Pa was. But in the nature of things passing events touched him more or less sharply in their progress. It ain't all there doings, Marky, now, is it? Like it's not it ain't, Pa. I've sold all I've made up to this batch, Marky, and I've been puttering over the heat since the morning meal. Well, I'll lay the things on for the noon meal, Pa. You tend to business. But you ain't slept, Marky, up all night and no sleep next day. It won't do, Marky, now will it. Now sleep come night time. Mark seized his third almost boiling cruller and turned to Billy. You ain't seen Janet, have you? Billy looked guilty. No, and I ain't a-goin' to this trip. Mark, how is things at the light? Squally, as to Susan Jane, seein' others spry while she's by the stroke ain't hadin' to Susan Jane's Christian qualities. Stormin' at Janet? Janet comes in for her share, but David gets the toughest blasts. I don't see how Davy weathers it and still keeps a song and a smile. And him doin' another man's stint, too, Pa put in, dropping a brown ring on the floor, spearing it adroitly again and flipping it on the paper-covered platter. If William Henry Jones hadn't gone down in that squall thirty years ago, and if Davy hadn't thought it was his duty to carry out his mate's plans, I'm thinkin' Susan Jane might have been different, and Davy might not have had such tormentin' experiences. Least that is how it struck me thirty years back, and it strikes me so yet. Billy nodded, appreciatively. Tain't always wise to tackle somebody else's job, Mark joined in. That's what come to me in the city. City jobs ain't for you, that's what I said to myself. Salt air was in my nostrils, the sound of the sea in my ears, and I couldn't any more hear to the teaching of city ways than the city folks can learn of us here in the coast. Again Billy nodded. He felt his spirits rising as he looked upon this man of the world and knew him as a friend. Draw up, Pa and Captain Billy. Mark had collected a large and varied repast. Have some cold fowl, Captain, and a couple of taters. Lay hold of a brace of them ears of corn. Over half a yard long and as near black as purple ever is. Inside they're white and milky enough. Have some blackberry pie, along with your fowl, Captain. Tain't every day you can get Pa's cooking, and I believe in mixing good vitals. It's what Nader does. Billy took everything suggested and ate it indiscriminately, and this example was ably followed by his hosts. Mark, Billy after a long but significant silence, sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth in the back of his hand. Mark, I'm going to ask you to join me in a rather shady job. Do you happen to know the particular women painters as his usem jannet for a model? Mark strangled over a kernel of corn and stared, teary-eyed, at Billy. Model, he finally gasped. Model, my Captain, that ain't no word to tack on to jannet. Models ain't moral or decent. I learned that in the city from a painter chap as used to come into the shop and eat oysters when he could afford it. Billy's face lengthened. To his mong friends I speak, Billy dropped his voice. Both men nodded. You know, jannet is a model to some of them dirty-aproned women painters, and I want to see just how they've took her and what they calculate to do with the picture. Andrew Farley has been modeling for them, and Andy's count of how he looks in paint ain't pleasant. I don't know as I want jannet shown up in the city kind of unsightly. During this explanation Mark's countenance had assumed an impression of intense suffering. Bits of gossip arose like channel stakes in the troubled water of his misery. Like the bits of red cloth which marked the states in the bay, Susan Jane's emphasis of such gossip fluttered wildly in this hour. Through the channel, clearly set by these signals, was a wide course leading direct to a certain hut upon the hills of which violent, watchful Mark knew. She ain't no model, Captain. Don't say that," he finally managed to get out. That's just scandalous gossip. She told me herself. Billy brought his tilted chair to the floor. And I got to keep this visit secret. But since the gal ain't got no mother, I've got to do double duty. Knowing how up in city ways you are, Mark, I thought maybe he'd pilot me on this trip. I'm terrible clumsy with strangers, especially women. And I want to do what's right. Taint a woman," this declaration was rung from Mark. What's that? Billy sprang from his chair. Now, Marky, do be careful, cautioned Pa. Don't make no statement you can't stand by. Nation, that fat is burning. I said, Twernt no woman painter has done, Janet. If she has been a model, and Twer'you has said that, she's been one to a man. The horror on Billy's face was pitiful. Can you locate him? He asked in trembling tones. Mark nodded. Come on, then. In silence the two departed. Pa hardly noticed them, the burning fat claimed his entire attention. Mark strode ahead toward the hills, and Billy, with the swing of the lonely patrols, brought up the rear. It was the dining-hour, and Quinton was almost deserted in the hot August noon. Don't let's get hit up, advised Mark presently. City folks is powerful clever about keeping cool inside and out. I'm already hit, panted Billy. Let's take it easier. Mark paused in the path and wiped his streaming face. They did not speak again until Thornley's hut was almost at their feet. Billy's face was grim and threatening, but Marks showed signs of doubt and wavering. The collections of city calm and coolness were not uplifting in this emergency. Folks in town had always outwitted Mark by their calmness. Thornley's door was set open to strangers and whatever air was stirring. He himself was sitting inside, his back to his coming guests and his eyes upon the unfinished picture upon the easel. The contents of a shafing-dish meal were spread upon a small table and silence brooded over all. It was only when Mark and Billy stood at the door that Thornley turned. The look of expectancy died in his eyes as he saw the weather-beaten countenance of Billy and the shame-faced features of Mark. I do not want any sitters, thank you, said he. We don't want a sit," Billy replied firmly and clearly. I beg your pardon, Thornley smiled pleasantly. You see, nearly all of them do. Won't you come in? It's cooler outside," ventured Mark. There isn't much difference, said Thornley, rising courteously. I'm Captain Billy Morgan," this statement appeared to interest Thornley immensely. I'm glad to meet you," he answered. Are ye a painter man?" asked Billy. I've been dubbed that occasionally, Thornley laughed. What can I do for you? Did you ever have a model? Mark broke in breathlessly, feeling he must help Billy out, no matter what his own feelings were. I've even been guilty of that. Did ye ever have my jannet? Poor Billy's trouble, knowing no restraint of city ways or roundabout methods, rushed forth sharply. Thornley changed color perceptibly. Come in," he urged. The glare is really too painful. The two awkwardly stepped inside. Then Mark's eyes fell upon the canvas. Captain, he groaned, look at this. The two men stood spellbound before the easel, and Thornley watched them curiously. It's her, muttered Billy. It's her! Poor little thing. She's just drifted without a hand upon the tiller. The visitors forgot Thornley. I didn't think I had more in the right to watch, Captain. Mark's voice was full of tears, as he said this. You had the right to shout out a call to me, lad. You'd have done the like for any little skiff you'd seen in danger. Then he turned upon Thornley. What right have you got to steal my gal's looks? And what tricks have you used to get him and her happiness along with him? Thornley winced. Her happiness? He asked helplessly, not knowing what else to say. Yes, her happiness. Don't you suppose that I, what has watched her since she came into port, watched her and loved her and sought hopes on her? Don't you think I know the difference to its happiness and the sham thing? Good Lord! breathed Thornley. Are you speaking truth? Billy drew himself up with a dignity Thornley shrank before. There ain't anything but the truth good enough to use when we're talking to my little gal, he said quietly. He felt no need of Mark nor knowledge of city ways. Mark was still riveted before the picture. Slow tears were rolling down his twitching face. The calamity that had overtaken Janet was like death, and this lovely smiling face upon the canvas was but the dear memory of her. I never meant to harm her, said Thornley presently. I cannot hope that you'll understand. It has only recently come to me, the understanding. I have always thought the artist in me had a right to seize and make my own all that my eyes saw that was beautiful. Lately the man in me has uprisen and shown me that I have been a fool, a fool and a thief. That's what you are, blubbered Mark. That lasts what you are. You've taken Janet's good name, you've taken her happiness, and you've taken her from us. Thornley's color rose, but a look at the speaker's distorted face hushed the angry words that he was about to utter. He turned to Billy as to an equal. Captain Morgan, he said quietly, I have done nothing to harm your daughter's good name in the eyes of any man or woman. That I swear before God. In that I yearn to make her wonderful beauty add to my reputation I plead my blind selfishness, but above all I wanted to give to the world a pleasure that you can never realize, I think. And I believe your daughter is great enough to give all that I ruthlessly took without asking to help me give the world that picture. His own eyes turned to the pure exquisite face. Like as not, she would, Billy replied. Like as not, she would. Was there ever a woman as wasn't willing to fling herself away if a man was reckless enough to point the path out to her? And do you think I'm going to let you take my Janet's dear face into that hell-place of a city and have folks staring at her, folks what, ain't fit to raise their eyes to her? Ain't you done her enough wrong without taking her sacrifice if she's willing to make it? Good God, man, I'm willing to do all I can. That picture is worth hundreds of dollars to me and untold pleasure to many besides, but I am willing to do with it just what you think best. Then cut it open, Mark. Billy's tones rose shrilly. Slash it top and bottom and don't leave a trace of Janet. Mark drew from his pocket a huge clasp-knife. He trembled as he opened it and stood back to strike the first blow. Stop! Thornly sprang between him and the canvas. Stop! I could easier see some savage devastate the beauty of these hills. Wait! I swear to leave it as it is. I swear that no eyes but ours shall rest upon it, but you shall not destroy it. Command and power rang in Thornly's voice. Mark wavered. Billy hung his head. After all, he groaned, we ain't none of us got the final right. Janet's my gal, but her beauty is hers and God Almighty's. Keep the picture till such time as my Janet can judge and say. The time will come when she'll get her bearings with full instructions and then she'll judge among us all. The two rough men turned toward the door. When she tells you, Billy paused to say, she'll be wiser than what she is today, poor little critter. Thornly watched the men in stern silence until they passed from sight. Then he went back to the easel. Pimp or no, he whispered brokenly. Poor little wildflower, out of place among us all. He drew a heavy cloth over the radiant face and, with reverent hand, placed the canvas against the wall in the darkest corner of the room. Late that afternoon Billy's boat put off for the station in the teeth of a rising gale and amid ominous warnings of thunder. Susan Jane grew more irritable and nervous as the storm rose. She feared storm and lightning. Janet, ain't that Billy's sail crossing the bay? She said. Janet came to the window. Yes, it is, she faltered, and he's going on. Well, what do you suppose? Ain't he got to get back by sundown? It would be a pretty pass if he'd come off at sundown. But he's been off all day, likely as not. Janet's lips quivered. Well, suppose he has. Are you going to be one of them tormentant women who is always nagging a man about what he's doing and what he ain't a-doing? Where's David? He's gone up into the light, Susan Jane. The woman turned anxiously toward the window. It's an awful storm, Ryzen, Janet. Wind off sea, but change in every minute. Draw the shade. I'm fearing the ocean will rise high enough for us to see the breakers over the dunes. I ain't seen the ocean for thirty-odd years, and I ain't going to now. Her voice rose hysterically like a frightened child's. I just won't see the ocean. Janet pulled the green shade down and hid from her own aching eyes the vanishing sight of Billy's struggling boat. But her loving heart went with it, as, spurning the wind and darkness, it made for the dunes and duty. All day, the girl thought. All day, and not to let me know. Oh, Captain Daddy, what mischief have you been up to? The quivering smile rose over the hurt, but anxiety laid deep in the troubled heart. A crash of thunder rent the air. A blinding flash of lightning turned the black bay into a molten sea. Janet could see it through the glass of the outer door in the entry. Janet! Yes, Susan Jane? Get away from the draft. I think you might know how if you got struck by lightning I couldn't do a blessed thing but look at you. Janet came into the darkened room. Light the lamp, Susan commanded. I ain't going to save oil when I'm in this state. Oh, Janet! A splintering crash shook the house. Did you ever hear the like? It's pretty bad, Susan Jane. But the girl was thinking of the little boat struggling in the bay, the strong hand upon the tiller, and the faithful heart fearless in the midst of danger. Janet, since you ain't got no nerves, can you read to me and sort of drown the storm? I'm powerful, shaken. I can't run if the house is struck. I can't do nothing but just suffer. The woman was crying miserably. I'll read to you, Susan Jane, and the storm's passing. I can count now. How many? How many, Janet? A blinding flash showed around the green curtain's edge and dimmed the light of the kerosene lamp. One. Two. The awful crash stilled the word. Taint fur enough off, Janet, to trust any. Oh, God, help me! If I could only put my hands over my ears. But the poor, helpless hands lay white and shriveled in the woman's lap. Here, Susan Jane, shut your eyes tight and lean your head upon my shoulder. There! Now, when I see the flash, I will cover your ears. That will help. Janet! A mildness stolen to the peevish whining voice. Janet, times is when I see that Billy weren't all wrong in his bringing of you up. He's sort of left the softness like a baby in you. The hidden eyes did not see the glare, but the thin form quivered as the girl's firm hands were pressed over the sensitive ears. It's kind of muffled-like, panted the woman. In between, Janet, can you say any of it? Your chapter, Susan? Yes, David knows the most of it, and nights, bad nights, he says it when he ain't so plump sleepy he can. I'll say what I can, Susan Jane. The gray head nestled close to the strong young shoulder. The nagging woman rested, breathing deep. The fierce storm was rolling away. Darkness was giving place outside to the sunset glow which, during all the terror and gloom, had lain waiting. And I saw a new heaven and a new earth. For the first heaven and the first earth were passed away and there was no more sea. Janet's voice repeated the word slowly, tenderly. Their beauty held her fancy. Davey explains that, Susan's muffled word came dully, this way. He says the old happy time, when William Henry and me was young and lovin'. You know about that? Yes, Susan Jane. Well, that was the first heaven and earth for us and it's passed away. The woman was sobbing as a frightened child sobs when fear and danger have passed and relief has opened to the floodgates. I don't know how William Henry is going to bide a new heaven without any sea, Janet. He sought a lot by the sea. Always a going out when it was the wildest and trickiest. He used to say he'd like to go to glory by water and he did. He did. I wasn't none older than you be, Janet, when he went down and the cruel waves kept him, kept him forever. There, there, Susan Jane, you know they did not keep the part you loved. That part is safe where there is no more sea. Solemnly the girl spoke as she smoothed the throbbing head. Yes, like as you're not right, Janet. And he'll find another comfort in that heaven. She was the patientest, cheerfulest body and never a quick word for me. Janet, don't you ever tell, but I'm afraid to see the ocean. I'm afraid because I'm always a-thinking his dead white face might come up to me on a wave. Poor Susan Jane, it will never come to harm you. I would not fear. I love the sea. If it had been my William Henry, I should have watched for his face shining in the beautiful curly waves. And had I seen it, I would have stretched out my arms to him, and we would have gone away to glory together. Not if the face was a dead face, Janet. A horror rang in the words. Somehow, the girl replied, I could never think it dead if it came that way. For God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away. That's it, Janet, Susan Jane's voice trailed sleepily. The former things of the things what has the tears, and the pains, and the hurts, and they must pass away before there can be any kind of a heaven that's worthwhile. I wonder, drearily, I wonder how it will seem when I ain't got any pains nor any tears, and when there ain't any more black nights to think about them in. I'll feel terrible lost just at first. It will be about as hard for me to get used to doing without them as it will for William Henry to do without the sea. I guess we'll all have considerable to do to learn to get along without the former things, whatever they was. Maybe some of the joy will be in learning all over. Janet, I'm powerful sodden with weariness. Wearing us is one of the former things. A whimsical humor stirred the words. Sometimes the former things get to be dreadful foolish day after day. Let me carry you to the bedroom, Susan. Janet had assumed this duty in order to spare David the nights he must go up aloft. The thin, light body was no burden to the sturdy girl. There, Susan, and see the storm has passed. The evening glow was shining in the bedroom window. And I will undress you just as easy as easy can be and put you so upon the cool bed. The shower has cleared the air beautifully. Now are you comfortable, Susan Jane? I'm more comfortable than what I've been for a time past. Leave the shade up to the top, Janet. I like to see the gleam of David's light when it is dark. I like to think how it helps folks find their way to the harbors where they would be. Janet, that was a terrible queer thing you said about the face in the wave. The girl was folding the daily garments of the tired woman and placing them where David's bungling hands could find them for another day's service. What was that, Susan Jane? She stood in the fair full light of the parting day. About it not being a dead face. That's been the horror of it all these years. It has always been a dead and gone face. That's why I hated the sea. But if—and a radiant spread over the thin wasted features— if it should be that William Henry came back to me alive and smiling as he always did, why, like as not, I'd put my arms out—then she paused and the voice broke. No, I could not put my arms out. But I could smile like I've most forgotten how to do, and I could go with William Henry anywhere, same as any other loving woman. I never thought about his face being alive in the wave. But, do you know, it's a real pleasant idea that of sea in the sea again, and William Henry is smiling and waving his arms like he used to when he was bathing. I declare it's a real grateful thought. Janet! Yes, Susan? I wish you'd go up into the light after you've cleared the setting-room and tell Davy good night. I forgot to say it when he started up. There's some difference about money, least Davy had. I never had any different idea about it. It's him as changes. Go get the box, Janet, and put it under the bed. If it wasn't for me, I guess Davy would know. It was after sunset when Janet, hearing Susan Jane's even breathing, felt herself free. She stretched her arms above her head and so eased the tension. The manner of bearing life's burdens by the people of the dunes was but an acquired talent with her. The first and natural impulse of the girl's nature was to cry out against care and trouble, to make a noise and act. It was second nature only that had taught her to assume silently and bear secretly whatever of unpleasantness life presented. Oh, Captain Daddy! She had once cried to Billy when something had stirred her childish depths. Why don't we yell and kick and scare it off? Tain sensible with them as lies near the sea, Janet. Billy had calmly returned. The sea teaches a powerful pointed lesson long in them lines. Troubles is like the sea. When they is the worst, they do all the shouting and roaring themselves, and you just might as well pull in your sail and lie low. When they is past and the calm sets in, it is plain shallowness to use yourself up then. Folks in cities don't learn this lesson. Tain got no such teacher, and that's why they wear out sooner and have that unsettled air. They think noise and bustle of their makin' can do away with troubles, but it can't, Janet. So, like as not, the sooner you learn the better. Janet thought of this hard lesson now as she stretched her strong young body and quelled the rebellious cry upon her lips. I'll go up and bid Davy good night," she whispered half aloud, then lower. Good night, my cat and daddy. You've reached the dunes safely, but you'll have to own up some day. She waved in the direction of the station. How dark the water looks, she suddenly cried. Stars in plenty. Where is Davy's light? Light and fear filled, she sprang toward the stairs and ran lightly upward. Slower she went after the third landing. Anxiety added to weariness stayed the eager feet. If the light were not burning, what then? Just below the lamp and gallery was a tiny room with a table, chair, small stove, and little glass lamp. Here, between the times that David inspected his light, he sat to read or think. As Janet reached the place, the darkness was so dense she could see nothing but without stretched hands she was feeling her way to the door leading to the steps into the light when she touched David's gray head as it lay upon his arms folded upon the table. He was breathing deeply and audibly and the girl's touch did not arouse him. Whatever the matter was with David, Janet's first thought was of his sacred and neglected duty. She ran on and into the lamp. She struck the match and set the blaze to the wick. Then, when it was well lighted, she darted outside and withdrew the cloth. The belated beams shot into the night as if they had gained strength and power from the forced delay. God keep the government from knowing, breathed the girl. It was only a little while and it ought not to count after all the faithful years. Weak from fear and hurry, Janet retraced her steps to David. He was still sleeping as peacefully as a child. Under his folded arms was an open book. Janet recognized it as one that Mr. Devont had given to David recently, a little book of poems of the sea, poems with a ring and rhythm in them that bore the golden thoughts to David's song-touched heart. The man had fallen asleep like a happy boy, forgetting for the first time in his life his duty. Janet lighted the little lamp upon the stand and drew up a stool. The minutes ticked themselves away upon David's big white-faced clock which hung against the wall. Eight, eight-thirty, eight-forty-five. Then David sat up and stared with wide open eyes right at Janet. A moment of bewilderment shook his awakening senses. Then he gave his sigh and laughed. By gum, he said, just for an instant I thought I'd forgot my light. It's all right, Davy, Janet nodded cheerfully. Of course, Davy returned to the nod. Of course, you don't suppose I'd light my lamp first, do you? Never, Davy. It is bad enough to be napping. Like it is not, the government would turn me out and with reason if it caught on to that. I don't know, but I ought to confess. Lord, I was that worn. Long with Susan Jean's being more ailing than usual and the thickness of the air with the shower, that after I saw everything with ship-shape, I guess I flopped some. I'll forgive myself this once, but if it happens again, Davy Thomas, you'll write to the government, sure as you're born, and tell them what a blubberhead you are. Janet laughed and stretched her arms out until she clasped David's rough hands. I'll go up and take a look, said the man. Stop till I come down, Janet. I've got something to tell you. I came up to tell you, the girl called after him, that Susan Jean sent good-night to you. She did that, Davy paused upon the step and his face shone in the dull light. Janet nodded. Then Davy went to inspect his lamp. But to us he gives the keeping of the lights along the shore. Janet smiled as the cheerful words floated back to her. Presently David returned. Everything is as it should be, he chuckled. Clear night, but change and breeze, and the light doing its proper duty. Janet, while I slept, I had the dirtiest dream. I can't get rid of it. I read once how the surest way to get rid of an idea was to dump it on another. Dump away, Davy. It made me feel kind of like I did long ago, and then Susan Jean sending that good-night up sort of fitted in. Janet, I've been dreaming about William Henry Jones. Janet nodded. William Henry seemed recently to have assumed shape and form to her. He had been but a name in the past. I saw him coming up the stairs just as plain as day, like he used to come when he came off, and ran up to me if I happened to be hauling oil up to the balcony or cleaning the lamp, or what not. His face was shining same as it used to. By gum I never see such a face as William Henry had. It always seemed to be lit from inside. I've come for Susie, he said. He was the one who's ever called her that, and I ain't heard it since he went down into the sea that morning he was blue fishing. I've come for Susie, and I want to thank you for caring for all you have. Then was his words, as true as gospel, and they was terrible comforting. For, Janet, I ain't told it to another soul, not even to Billy, but I always loved Susan Jean for myself. When William Henry won her I wasn't ever going to let on, but when he got grounded and Susan had to hustle to keep life in her body I just out and begged to take care of her William Henry. I told that lie, Janet, because I daren't tell her I wanted her for myself. I didn't never care whether she loved me or not after I knowed she loved William Henry anyway, but when he went I wanted to take care of her and keep her from the hardest knocks, and I wanted it for just myself. After a while I talked her into it. She weren't never strong, and work and grieve and made her an easy mark for suffering, and so she let me take care of her. But always it has laid heavy on my mind that I hadn't acted just fair to William Henry. And sometimes when I've been setting out in the balcony, freshening up, I've planned it all out how I'd see him coming over the dunes some day, coming out of the sea what swallowed him with an awful look of anger on his smile and face, because I'd got his Susie on false pretenses, as you might say. It's got kind of wearin' on me a late, but Lord, when I saw William Henry tonight, he was more shinin' and smilein' than ever. And when he thanked me like what he did, I nigh busted with pleasure. And then, as you told me about Susan Jean's good night, I just sent up a prayer out there in the balcony, a prayer of gratefulness for all my blessings. Dreams is queer stuff, Janet. Taint all as should be counted, but then you don't count all the folks and happenings that pass you in your waking hours. But when a dream, or a person, or an idea comes along as means a comfort or a strengthener, I take it that it is a sort of duty to clutch it and make it real. When you ain't got nothin' better, dreams is powerful uplifting at times. Gum! David drew his shoulders up and plunged his hands in his pockets, as if about to draw comfort from their depths. Gum, Janet, taint off when I get duty and pleasure mixed, but you stop here, and after I take another look at the lamp, I'm gonna run down and say good night to Susan Jane. I know how she's lyin' awake, thinkin' and thinkin' of the past. Dreams don't seem to come much to Susan Jane. David paid his visit to the light, then descended the stairs while Janet took up the book of poems and turned the pages idly. David's dream, and all that had happened, seemed to still her. How long she sat by the dim lamp-light she took no thought to find out. The words of poem after poem passed under her eyes unheedingly. Once she went into the light, saw that all was well, and came back to the book. Presently David emerged from the stairway. Janet was facing him, and the expression of his eyes brought her to her feet and to his side. David, what is it? She demanded. He has come. Who? William Henry. He's takin' her. No, no, David, it is not so. She is only asleep. David shook his head, and his eyes had a dumb agony in them. Taint so, Janet, and she's smilin' like she used to. I ain't seen that smile on her face in over thirty years. That's the way she used to look when she heard me comin' in the glomen, and thought it was him. No, Janet, she wears William Henry's smile. Janet darted past him, but he stayed her. I want you should sit by her till sun up. There's a brisk storm settin' in again, and taint fit for you to go for any one, and I've got to mind the light. Stay long of her, Janet. I'm glad she ain't got to suffer any more, or nothin'. A sob choked the deep voice, and seemed to follow the fleeting girl as she ran down the winding stairs. David had placed the living-room lamp upon the table by Susan Jane's bed. By its glow, Janet looked upon the woman under the gaudy patchwork quilt. Apparently she had not moved since Janet had placed her there. Without a struggle or pain she had gone forth. Oh, Susie! The old forgotten name slipped from the girl's quivering lips. Oh, Susie! I just believe you saw his live, shining face on an incoming wave. And when the wave went out, it took you both to glory. But, oh, my poor dear lonely Davy! Then the bright head bowed upon the cover-lid. Susie! Oh, Susie! I am so glad I held you while you were frightened. If I hadn't, I should never have forgiven myself. It was all I could do for Davy and William Henry and you. End of Chapter 7. Recording by Roger Moline.